


spare me

by branwyn, SugarPill



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s05e02 SNAFU, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, bowling, breaking and entering as flirting, just 12K+ of soft garbage masquerading as plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarPill/pseuds/SugarPill
Summary: Fusco invites John to join the NYPD bowling league so the guy can have some fun for once. But it turns out John's not the only one who's lonely.Written for the 2020 Person of Interest Big Bang Challenge.
Relationships: Lionel Fusco/John Reese
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27
Collections: Person of Interest Big Bang 2020





	spare me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to branwyn for the lovely artwork! My writing has never inspired art before, let alone embroidery, so please check out the awesome piece embedded below! 
> 
> Additional thanks to everyone on the discord server who cheered me on during the writing process. I wouldn't have completed this without you.

John takes careful aim, his eyes fixed intently on the target. He aligns his body to strike and lets out a measured exhale, sizing up his opponent. Then, when the moment is right, he takes his shot.

And his ball rolls directly into the gutter.

Fusco barks out a laugh. He can't help it. Who knew super secret agents were so bad at bowling?

John scowls at Fusco and stalks back to his seat before his ball even reaches the end of the lane. Once upon a time, that look would have sent Fusco scurrying away, eager to do whatever it took to avoid John's wrath. But now, over stale popcorn and John mismatched bowling shoes?

It's fucking hilarious.

"Whoa, New Guy's bad," Williams says mildly. A sergeant from the Sixth Precinct, Williams is tall, built, and a bit of a space cadet. But Fusco likes him. Even if he had pickled one too many braincells back when he was on the bottle.

"No, _we're_ bad," McPherson jokes, gesturing between them. " _That_ was downright terrible." McPherson is a stocky narcotics detective out of the 19th, steady and easy-going, with a frankly terrible sense of humor.Fusco has known him for years. "Jeez Fusco, would it kill you to recruit someone decent for a change?"

"Hey, I recruited both you bozos, didn't I?" Fusco shoots back.

"My point exactly!"

Fusco rolls his eyes and waves John over to the ball return, leaving Williams and McPherson to their ribbing. John looks like he's ready to shoot someone. Several someones, actually.

"Lighten up, they're just razzing you," Fusco says, spinning the balls until they're back in order. "Remember what we talked about: No knee-capping people."

"You didn't say anything about punching," John hisses back. "Or arson."

"Don't be such a drama queen. We were all rusty at first, it's no big deal."

John looks down, suddenly very interested in finding his ball and rolling it hole side up.

"You have bowled before, right?" Fusco tries to catch his attention. "John?"

John doesn't answer, but he looks so uncomfortable that Fusco can't help another laugh at his expense. It makes the scowl on John's face turn downright murderous.

"All right, sorry," Fusco chuckles, because yeah, he invited John so the guy could have some fun for once, and no one likes being laughed at. "Look, it's not rocket surgery. Just watch the other people and do what they do. And try, you know, aiming for the pins."

John lets his ball drop on the return rack with a growl. "I'm going to get a drink."

"One thing I forgot to mention," Fusco says before John can retreat to the bar. "Williams, McPherson, and me? We're all sober. So, we don't drink. As a team."

John's scowl is replaced with a small, tight smile, one that promises widespread, imminent violence. "You dragged me here, made me wear this stupid shirt… and now you're telling me there's no drinking allowed?"

Fusco bites his cheek to keep a straight face. "Team policy. You understand."

John looks like he wants to feed Fusco feet-first into the conveyer system.

"Fine," John eventually grits out. He turns to go back to his seat. Or to possibly bolt from the building.

"Hey, it's still your turn," Fusco calls after him. "You get to go twice every time you're up!"

John groans. This time, Fusco manages to hold back his laughter. But just barely.

* * *

The Pin Destroyers lose the match by an impressive 100-plus points. John rolls gutter ball after gutter ball, looking more and more deflated as the night goes on. It's so bad that Williams and McPherson abandon their strategy of trash-talking John into shape, and try offering actual suggestions instead. Neither method helps John in the slightest.

"Hey, don't sweat it," Fusco tells him afterwards. "We're used to losing most of these."

"Yeah, who doesn't enjoy a good massacre every now and then?" McPherson quips.

"A true blood bath," Williams agrees.

"Don't worry, it won't happen again," John says, angrily stuffing his feet back into his street shoes. "Because I quit."

Fusco sighs. "Don't quit. Look, you just need more practice. How about before the next match, I give you some pointers? No audience, and I promise I won't laugh at you."

John glares at him.

"Okay, I'll keep the laughter to a minimum. Come on, what else do you have going on?"

John freezes with his shoes half tied.

 _I don't need a genius to tell me that you're lonely_.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Okay."

* * *

To Fusco's surprise, John actually shows up. He's just doing up his laces when John melts out of the shadows in the exact way Fusco hates, like some half-baked character from one of Lee's comic books.

"Nice place," John says dryly. Then he smirks. "Did you break in here so we'd be alone? Lionel, I'm touched."

The bowling alley is a little more rundown than the one used for the NYPD league. The lurid carpet is stiff from decades of spilt beer and the plastic decor is yellowed with age. There's a permanent smell hanging in the air, a combination of odor-eater spray, layers of floor wax, and the ghost of a million cigarettes. But it has character, as they say. History.

"No, I know the owner, Sal. He's an old family friend." Fusco raises his eyebrows, looking back the way John came. It's not in the direction of the door. "Did _you_ break in?"

John pauses. "No," he says, very unconvincingly.

Fusco lets out a deep sigh. He knew this might be difficult, but in true John Reese fashion, Fusco's expectations have already been wildly exceeded.

"Yeah, you're touched all right," Fusco grouses. "Here, put these on." He sets a pair of bowling shoes on the plastic seats between them.

John eyeballs the shoes like the might bite. "How do you know what size I wear?"

"Magic, smartass." In reality, Fusco had returned John's shoes to the counter girl after their last league match. But he's not about to tell John that. It's not every day that Fusco gets to pull one over on him. "Come on, I ain't got all night here."

John is still frowning at Fusco with that suspiciously bewildered look on his face, but he does as he's told. He slips his suit jacket off and drapes it carefully over the seats before rolling up his sleeves. Then he stands there awkwardly in his bowling shoes, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. It reminds Fusco of those videos of people putting booties on their dogs, and then filming them forgetting how to walk. Fusco barely manages to keep his promise of not laughing.

It's going to be a long night.

"After shoes comes picking a ball," Fusco says, waving to the rack behind them. "Choose your weapon."

John picks up one bowling ball and then the next, weighing each in his hands. Finally, he turns around and presents his choice to Fusco.

"Okay, let me see your grip." Fusco gestures for John to give him the ball. He does, and Fusco positions it so the holes are facing John.

John raises his eyebrows. "Shouldn't we at least go on a date first?"

"You wanted me to teach you," Fusco says, pushing the ball closer, "this is how you learn. Fingers in the holes, Wonderboy."

John makes a face like he regrets every single life decision he's ever made. Finally, after an obstinate few seconds, he tentatively eases his fingers into the ball.

"Middle and ring finger," Fusco corrects. John scowls at him, but switches to the right fingers. He pointedly refuses to look Fusco in the eye, so Fusco makes him stand there until he's practically squirming, just because.

Eventually, Fusco relents. "Nah, this one's not right."

John pulls his hand away and glowers. "You told me to pick one out, and this is the one I picked. What's wrong with it?"

"You picked the heaviest one," Fusco says, walking the ball back to the rack. "Which would be great, if you're gonna beat someone to death with it. But in bowling, heavier doesn't always mean more power. Bowling is all about finesse."

"I've got plenty of finesse."

This time, Fusco does laugh, until his shoulders shake and his eyes start to water.

"Really? The guy who pulled a flash bang in a moving vehicle instead of waiting for me to pull over? Sure. That's finesse, all right."

"I was in a hurry!"

"So much of a hurry that you totaled my car instead of stealing it to drive back to the city! What'd you do, flap your arms real hard and fly back to Manhattan?"

"I don't see what any of this has to do with bowling," John grumbles.

Fusco pulls another ball from the rack, stilling chuckling. "Here, try this one."

John glares at him, snatching the ball from Fusco's hands before trying it out. Then his face smoothes into one of surprised approval. "Oh. Huh."

"That one's got more distance between the thumb and the finger holes," Fusco explains. "For those gigantic mitts you call hands. Better, right?"

John nods, slowly flexing his arm up and down. "Okay. What's next?"

Fusco grabs a ball for himself. "Next, we bowl."

John is… terrible. Really, truly, utterly terrible. There's no other word for it. Fusco shows him the correct stance and arm motion, how to start from a few steps back, how to toe the foul line. But none of it makes a difference. Almost every time John rolls, the ball ends up in the gutter, like it's magnetically drawn there.

Fusco hasn't seen bowling this bad since he first took Lee. When he was six.

"Better," Fusco says, trying to sound encouraging when John manages to clip two pins on his next try. "See, you're getting there."

The praise doesn't have the intended effect, though. Fusco had been prepared for John to get frustrated, to get angry. He needs more than two hands to count the number of times he's seen John walk into a bar and beat every single occupant unconscious in a matter of minutes. Guy can't do that without some rage issues, right?

But Fusco isn't prepared for this. John looks… sad. Downright miserable. Like with every throw, he's just waiting for Fusco to be disappointed in him.

Fusco doesn't like that.

After shooting a text to Sal, the lights flick on and off in a deliberate pattern.

"Closing time," Fusco announces.

John pauses mid-roll, stumbling and almost chucking the ball into the seats behind him. "But I haven't gotten it yet."

"That's okay." Fusco sits down to pull his shoes off. "Rome wasn't built in a day, pal."

John straightens up and frowns down at the floor. "So, will we do this again?"

"Honestly, I've already taught you everything I know." Fusco gets to his feet and motions for the ball still clutched between John's palms. John reluctantly gives it up. "Now you just need to put the hours in. You know, practice. But only if this is fun for you. You don't have to be on the team, or do any of this, if it's not."

John gives Fusco an intense, determined look, the one he usually makes right before the shit hits the fan, and the bad guys hit the floor. "No, I want to. I'll put the hours in. I'll get it."

"Okay, sure." Then Fusco grins. "And yeah, I wouldn't mind doing this again. Not gonna lie, it's kinda awesome being better than you at something."

John snorts. "Yeah, I'll bet it is. With it being such a novel experience and all."

"One more thing." Fusco sends John a text.

"What's this?"

"Sal's number. So you can pay for whatever damage you caused during your little break-in. Next time, use the door like a regular person, huh?"

John rolls his eyes and goes for his jacket, but Fusco sees the way his mouth quirks upward, just a bit.

* * *

A few weeks later, Fusco is powering through another night of bleary-eyed reports and bad coffee at the Eighth. He looks up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk to find Harold standing next to his chair.

"Good evening, detective."

"Oh, hey professor," Fusco says. "If you're looking for my bonehead partner, he's… well, honestly, I thought he was with you."

"No, he's not." Harold shoots a glance at John's desk, twirling his hat between his hands. "It's actually John that I wanted to talk to you about."

Well, that can't be good. Fusco swivels his chair towards Harold and pulls off his reading glasses. "Okay. Shoot."

"I've noticed John has been absent more frequently than usual lately. At first, I thought it was because his caseload had increased and he was spending more time at work."

"I fucking wish," Fusco gripes, motioning to his chaotic desk. "I could really use a hand here. But no, same number of murderous scumbags as usual, far as I can tell."

Harold tilts his head in assent. "Yes. The same can be said for our little endeavor. No increases as of late."

"So, just track his phone. Isn't that what you do whenever Mr. Sunshine goes rogue?"

Harold makes a pinched expression.

Fusco huffs out a laugh. "Let me guess. You already tried that, and you still can't find him."

Harold nods stiffly. "It appears John has turned off his phone. And has been doing so at regular intervals for the last several weeks."

"Could be the guy just wants some privacy?"

"Normally, I would be inclined to agree with you. But after the Chase Patterson case…"

"Yeah," Fusco says darkly. It hasn't been that long since John's misadventure in the Catskills. Fusco can still remember exactly how dead his partner looked before pulling him out of that car. "Bad things happen when John goes off the grid."

"Precisely." Harold pauses, anxiously spinning his hat in one direction, and then the other. "I've also become more concerned about his drinking as of late."

"Wonderboy's missing _and_ he fell off the wagon?" Fusco drags a hand down his face. "That's never a good combo."

"On the contrary, detective, John has never stopped drinking," Harold says, his mouth twisting with unpleasantness. "Not completely. There are ebbs and flows, but our current situation is… stressful. So I think he's doing more of it these days instead of less."

"If he is, he's not doing it in front of me." Fusco knows all the signs to look for—once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic, even if he is working on his four year chip—but it's hard to tell if John's erratic behavior is because of his drinking, or because of the Vigilante Adventures of Glasses and Wonderboy. "I can keep an eye on him, though."

"Thank you," Harold says. "I just can't think of what's changed in the past month to push him away like this."

Suddenly, it clicks in Fusco's mind. He nearly laughs out loud.

"What's changed is I got him to join the NYPD bowling league."

Harold blinks at him. "You what."

"It's just a rec league, but it's good for a few laughs. I thought it might help John have some fun for once."

"Bowling."

"Yeah."

"For fun."

"Yeah."

"And John went voluntarily."

Fusco squints at Harold. The look on his face—or rather the discernible lack of any expression at all—is really starting to freak Fusco out. "Yeah. You okay? Did your hard drive crash or something?"

Suddenly, Harold's posture sags and he breathes out a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. I was worried something horrible had happened to him."

"You've never seen John bowl. It is horrible."

Harold shakes his head. "I was so ready to believe the worst, and John is… bowling _._ In secret. It's just so…"

"Anti-climatic?"

Harold makes a non-expression that Fusco has come to interpret as him being terribly amused.

"Dumb."

A surprise laugh bursts out of Fusco. Harold starts chuckling as well, and soon they're both nearly doubled over with exhausted, slap-happy glee.

Harold wipes his eyes. "Oh, dear. I apologize, but after everything we've been through… _bowling_. How absurd."

Fusco is still giggling, his stomach sore. He can't remember the last time he laughed so much. "If you want absurd, you should come watch a match sometime. It's not exactly high comedy, but it is a bunch of middle-aged guys in bad polyester making fools of themselves."

Harold smiles at him. "I might just take you up on that. I'm assuming you know where John is, then?"

Fusco sighs, gathering his paperwork into a rough pile before shoving it into a desk drawer. Experience tells him he won't be getting any more work done tonight.

"Don't worry, professor. I think I know exactly where our boy is."

* * *

Sal meets Fusco in the parking lot with a handshake that turns into a bear hug. The old man might be past his prime and have a gut to rival Fusco's own, but there's still a lot of strength in his wrinkled frame.

"Jesus, Sal, I'm not twelve anymore," Fusco complains, but only little.

"Respect your elders, Lionel," Sal jokes, slapping Fusco on the back before releasing him. "I'm old as shit, I've earned it."

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, I'm sorry about this."

Sal waves away Fusco's concern. "Ah, no big deal. Guy's not hurting nothin'. I'd love to know how he's getting past the security system, though."

"I'll ask him. Right after I get done kicking his ass."

Sal chuckles. "I'd be careful with that one, Lionel. He reminds me of some of the boys from the old neighborhood. The ones you don't cross, if ya know what I mean."

Lionel shakes his head. "Still looking out for me, huh?"

"A promise is a promise," Sal says, his jovial expression flickering into one of nostalgic sadness. "Your old man would never forgive me if I didn't, God rest his soul."

"Yeah." For a moment, Fusco is 19 again and staring down his father's coffin, squeezed into a church pew between his mother and baby sister. He swallows the bitter memory along with the lump in his throat. Then he claps Sal on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, I can handle this guy. He's all bark. Mostly."

* * *

Fusco finds John at the far lane. He's staring intensely down the maple, like he can force the ball into the pins by sheer will alone. It very much does not work.

"Hey, asshole!"

John looks up sharply, and at least has the decency to appear somewhat guilty. "What are you doing here, Lionel?"

"Looking for you," Fusco snaps. He marches up to John and jabs a finger at him. "Finch came to see me because he couldn't find you. He was worried you might be in trouble."

John's face is impassive. "Harold worries too much."

"Does he? Because the last time you went dark like this, you nearly died."

"This isn't like that."

"Yeah, except Finch doesn't know that if you don't tell him anything!"

John sighs and his eyes shift to the empty space over Fusco's shoulder. Behind him, the return spits out his ball. "I didn't say anything because it's… embarrassing," he finally mutters.

"That's not an excuse!" Fusco yells. "And you wanna know what's embarrassing? The guy I told Sal was my friend repaying his hospitality by breaking and entering! Repeatedly!"

"I didn't cause any damage."

"That's not the point! Why didn't you just ask me to come with you?"

"I…" John trails off with a sigh, tipping his head back to stare at the darkened ceiling. "I didn't want to bother you, I guess."

"Right, and me having to walk off the job to find your sorry ass is better?"

John looks away, but before he does, Fusco catches that sad, miserable expression on his face again, the one just waiting to disappoint. Fusco feels his anger dissipating.

"Look, it's no bother," Fusco sighs. "All you have to do is ask. Okay?"

John's quiet for so long that Fusco thinks maybe he didn't hear. But then he finally nods. "Okay." 

"And you'll talk to Finch?"

"Yeah."

"You fucking better. Finch was worried about you. I was, too. You shouldn't put the people who love you through shit like that."

John blinks at Fusco, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Love me?"

"Shaddup," Fusco growls. Of course that would be the only part to sink into John's thick skull. "Get your stuff and let's go, you degenerate."

* * *

Fusco is standing in line for a hotdog and some nachos when his cell phone rings. The call is from a blocked number, but Fusco knows what that means. "I'm busy, Wonderboy."

" _Lionel,_ " John says in his best friendly menace. " _The Pin Destroyers have a game. Where are you?_ "

"Lee has a hockey game, so I have to miss this week. His team is 3-0 so far this year, they're really kicking ass."

" _Lionel._ " John doesn't even need to say his threats out loud anymore; they're implied after so many years. " _You can't leave me here alone._ "

"You're not alone. Williams and McPherson are there, aren't they?"

" _I can't—I'm no good at this._ "

"What, bowling? Or acting like a normal human being?" Lionel hands the concession worker some bills and takes his food over to the condiment station. "Relax, they're good guys. Make some small talk, get to know them a little bit."

" _Lionel, you have to be here. Tell me you're going to be here._ "

"No can do," Fusco grins. "Baby bird's gotta fall out of the nest sometime, John. You'll do great."

" _That's not how baby birds work, Lionel—_ "

He snorts and hangs up. Fusco's sure he'll be paying for that later. But right now, he has a hockey game to watch, and a son to cheer on. John and his terrible skills, both bowling and social, will just have to make do without him.

* * *

As it turns out, Fusco's punishment is waiting for him when he gets home. Because his life is just convenient like that.

It's late by the time he trudges up the stairs to his fourth floor walk up, and Fusco is beat. He just wants to take a shower, catch up on some bad TV, and then fall face-first into bed.

But when Fusco reaches the landing and sees his front door is slightly ajar, his exhaustion vanishes in an instant.

Gripping his keys so they don't jingle, Fusco edges along the wall towards the door. He doesn't have his gun—they don't let you carry weapons into the sports arena—and Fusco silently curses himself over it. He reaches the door and carefully peeks around the frame. It's dark inside his apartment, but Fusco can make out a familiar silhouette against the living room window.

Fusco slams the door open all the way and flips on the lights. Hunched on the back of his couch, like some kind of well-dressed gargoyle come to life, is John.

Fusco could yell at him about breaking and entering not being a socially acceptable way to initiate conversations (again), or about boundary issues (again), or about privacy (also again). But he can smell the booze on John from here, and it's not like John ever listens to him anyway, and well, Fusco's tired.

So instead, Fusco simply drops his keys on the table and shuts the door behind him.

John is squinting at him horribly. "Can you turn the lights off?" He croaks.

"This ain't the Holiday Inn," Fusco snaps. But after staring a John a moment, wavering and disheveled, Fusco compromises; he turns on a floor lamp instead of the harsher overhead lights. Fusco tells himself it's because the less of John he has to see, the less irritating this encounter might end up being. But really, it's so Fusco doesn't have to look at John's eyes. They remind Fusco uncomfortably of a field trip Lee's class took once to the planetarium, of the exhibit on black holes; like a blank spot in space, flat and dark and empty.

Fusco kicks off his shoes without untying them and throws his jacket over a dining chair. Then he goes into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

When he comes back, John is still in the same position. Fusco could complain about his shoes on the cushions, but Fusco's ancient, sagging couch can't get any worse at this point anyway.

Fusco eases himself into his recliner with a sigh of relief. Those stadium seats are hell on his back. And then he waits. Experience has taught him that John won't leave until he says whatever it is he came to say, and Fusco has no intention of making it easier for him.

"How was the hockey game?" John eventually rasps.

"Great. Lee's team won. He even scored a goal, first one of the year. I don't know who was more excited, me or him."

John hums.

"I had to see my ex-wife, though. That wasn't so great."

John blinks at him slowly. "You don't get along?"

"No. That's why we got divorced, wise guy." Well, that and Fusco's drinking. And his late hours on the job. So many missed dinners, talent shows, and birthdays he lost count. He wasn't there like he should have been, for his ex, or for Lee.

Honestly, Fusco deserves every sharp word and disdainful glare Joanie throws at him, and then some. He doesn't blame her for leaving. But seeing her always makes Fusco remember how badly he fucked everything up, how close he came to losing his son for good.

They aren't happy memories.

Fusco clears his throat. "So, how was the bowling match? Or do I even need to ask?"

John shakes his head, his skull a little too loose on his neck. "Bad. We lost. Again. And I don't think Wilson and McDaniel like me very much."

"Well, their names are Williams and McPherson. So no, probably not."

John scrubs both hands down his face and groans.

Fusco can hear the coffee machine percolating, so he gets up to pour John a cup. After adding a few spoonfuls of sugar, Fusco shoves the mug into John's hands. "Drink this. And don't spill it."

John stares down at the coffee, and then back up at Fusco. "Don't you have anything stronger?"

"I could punch you in the face. That would be stronger."

John rolls his eyes, his body swaying in time. He takes a sip anyway.

"Did you get this trashed at the bowling alley?" Fusco asks. If so, he assumes he would have gotten a text from Williams or McPherson. But, depending on how badly John pissed them off, maybe not.

"No. Afterwards. I didn't break your stupid rule."

"Good. If you did, we'd have to kick you off the team."

John smiles at him with too many teeth. "Is that a promise, Lionel?"

"Why the fuck are you here, _John?_ " Fusco shoots back. "Other than to annoy the shit out of me?"

John stares into space for a moment. Eventually, he slides off the back of the couch and onto the cushions. By some minor miracle, he manages to not slosh coffee everywhere. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out raw and ragged, like someone is pulling the words out of his throat with fishing line.

"I don't think I'm cut out for this."

Fusco wants his tone to be harsher, but it's not. "For what?" 

"All of it."

"Yeah, no shit." 

John continues to stare at a fixed, distant point, his eyes wet in the low light. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Fuck. Fusco rubs the back of his neck. He's no good at this emotional garbage.

"Look, I get this is probably hard for you," Fusco starts again. "Not the bowling. I mean, yeah, that too. But also not being instantly great at something. I imagine it doesn't happen to you super spy types all that often."

John glares at Fusco, but the effect is ruined by his eyes being slightly out of focus.

"But for the rest of us," Fusco goes on, "being bad at something is the first step to being good at it. Sometimes you have to suck for a while before you get better. It's a process. But the more you try, the more you'll improve. So you just have to keep trying."

John's glare evaporates as he looks down at his coffee. He ponders Fusco's words for a moment before slurring, "Tha's pretty good advice, Lionel."

"Thanks. It's been known to happen on occasion."

John makes a noise that might be a snort, but he's too drunk to pull it off. And then he starts to slide sideways on the couch.

"Oh no you don't," Fusco mutters, lunging forward. But then he makes the decision to grab the mug instead of John, and in the next second John is snoring, slumped completely horizontal on the cushions and passed out cold. 

Fusco stares up at the cracked plaster ceiling of his apartment and sighs. Cosmically, it's a bit on the nose given the number of times Fusco has pulled this same stunt on the couches of friends past. But he can't help but wonder what he did in a previous life to deserve the bane that is John Reese. Something awful, surely.

Fusco dumps the coffee in the sink. He sets out a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin in plain view of the couch. Then he tosses a quilt over John's sprawling frame.

He texts Harold, letting him know John is safe and not bleeding out in an alley somewhere. _I'm aware, detective, but thank you_ is the response he gets. So John turns his phone off to go bowling, but not to break into Fusco's apartment? Fusco doesn't know whether to be offended or amused.

The next morning, Fusco wakes up to find the quilt neatly folded, the glass washed out and put away, and the aspirin back in the bathroom medicine cabinet.

John is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Instead of saying thank you, John avoids Fusco for the next three days. Not that Fusco minds. He could use a little peace and quiet, thank you. Besides, he knows it won't be for long. If making a drunken fool of himself made John Reese disappear permanently, he would have vanished from Fusco's life years ago.

It does mean that Fusco has to look through John's desk, though. He can't find a particular file he's looking for, and he has a hunch it's in the disaster zone that is his partner's work space.

While sifting through the drawers, Fusco stumbles upon two NYPD employee files, as well as a handful of other reports. The names on them are Michael Williams and Victor McPherson.

Fusco laughs to himself, shaking his head. He snaps a photo with his cell phone and texts it to John.

_When I said get to know the guys this is not what I meant you freak_

Fusco's phone buzzes a moment later with John's reply.

_had to make sure they were ok_

Fusco flips through the reports. looks like John had done a complete background check on both of them. And for what? To make sure Fusco was safe? How sweet. In a creepy, invasion of privacy kind of way. Again, Fusco doesn't know whether to be offended or amused.

Fusco's phone buzzes again.

_get away from my desk lionel_

_Make me John_

Sure enough, the next morning Fusco walks into the Eighth to find Tall, Dark, and Grumpy behind his desk like normal. Fusco smirks and drops the extra bodega egg and cheese he picked up next to John's elbow.

"What's this?" John asks.

"Breakfast, Einstein."

John looks down at the sandwich with raised brows, and then back up at Fusco.

But Fusco's already pulling the first stack of paperwork from his inbox. "Guess you're not as mysterious and unpredictable as you think," he says without looking up.

John scowls at him. But it doesn't stop him from unwrapping the sandwich and taking a gigantic bite.

* * *

John gets better by degrees. He's still awful at bowling, but his shoulders get a bit looser, his glares less murderous. Mostly, he gets better at letting Fusco and the other guys laugh at him. Fusco calls it progress.

"So, how'd you and Riley hook up?" McPherson asks at the Pin Destroyers next match.

Fusco pulls his attention away from watching John take his turn. "Buddy of mine from narcotics," he says nonchalantly. He very much does not think about how it felt to roll Stills' body into that grave, how he couldn't get the mud out from underneath his fingernails for days after. "He transferred to homicide, I was looking for a partner. I only want to kill him most of the time. It's a match made in heaven."

"From narcotics all the way to Homicide Task Force." McPherson whistles. "Hell of a career jump."

"He's a hell of a cop. Made some huge drug bust and got his pick of promotions. Guess he was tired of chasing corner boys around."

"Right. So he's good police?"

Fusco gives McPherson a sharp look. "Yeah. He is. What's it to you? Why the sudden interest?"

McPherson leans back in his seat and shrugs easily. "Just curious. Guy keeps to himself enough, people start to wonder."

"Wonder about what?"

The conversation is interrupted by the sound of a bowling ball smashing into pins head-on. As it reverberates around the alley, everyone's heads snap around towards the source.

Fusco must be hallucinating. John just scored a strike.

And completely by accident, if John's expression is anything to go by. He looks as shocked as Fusco feels. Williams looks dazed—well, more dazed than usual—and McPherson's mouth is hanging open. Their lane is filled with uncharacteristic silence as they all stare at John.

It's McPherson who speaks first. "You been holding out on us, New Guy?"

John, ever the asshole, just shrugs.

McPherson whoops and jumps out of his seat to give John a high-five. Williams is right behind him with a seesaw of a handshake, followed by a few back slaps. Fusco waits until the others step aside, and then wraps John in a bone-creaking hug.

John is obviously still in shock, accepting all the attention without complaint. Eventually his surprise fades into laughter, and the sound is so genuine and so delightful that Fusco can't help but join in.

John's smile falters. "What?"

"Nothing," Fusco chuckles, shaking his head. "Only I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before."

"Sure you have."

"I mean, in a creepy, sadistic way, sure. But for real? Nah, I'd remember that. Although I'm not entirely sure I'm not stroking out right now."

John squints at him. "No, your face is the same amount of droopy it normally is."

"Oh, thanks a lot!" 

John laughs again, and it makes something warm bloom in Fusco's chest. He chalks it up to the Kung Pao chicken he had for lunch.

* * *

After that, John's like a machine. He throws strike after strike, just as easy as breathing, until Fusco hardly remembers a time before. It's borderline scary. But hey, Fusco's not complaining. Not when they're mowing through opposing teams left and right by 200 points a game.

Their last match has just ended—another Pin Destroyers win— when Williams comes running from across the alley like his hair is on fire. He thrusts a piece of paper at McPherson's face. McPherson opens his mouth in protest, but then stops. His eyes grow big.

"Holy shit."

"What is it?" Fusco asks. In response, McPherson shoves the paper at him. Fusco reads it and feels his eyebrows climb into his hairline.

"What the fuck?" He asks in disbelief. "Is this a misprint?"

"Nope," Williams says, practically bouncing on his feet. "I even double-checked it with the league manager."

"What's going on?" John asks. Fusco passes the paper over his shoulder. John's eyes flow along the page before looking back up, confusion creasing his expression. "What does this mean?"

"It means we're in the semi-finals," Fusco says, feeling as gobsmacked as Williams and McPherson look. "For the first time ever."

"Oh," John says. "That's good, right?"

Fusco's laughter is drowned out by McPherson and Williams' cheering. Soon Fusco joins in, and they whoop and holler so loudly they almost get thrown out of the bowling alley for disturbing the other patrons.

John smiles, rare and real, as he watches them jump up and down like complete idiots. The warm feeling is back in Fusco's chest, but this time, there's not enough take out in the world to carry the blame.

* * *

A week later, Fusco is nearly home when his phone rings. It's from another blocked number.

"Please tell me this is a social call," Fusco groans. "I'm like five blocks from my place. I have a date with a frozen lasagna."

" _Lasagna's gonna have to wait, Lionel._ " John sounds a bit breathless over the line. Fusco feels apprehension bubble up inside him, but pushes it back down. " _I need your help._ "

John's directions lead Fusco to an industrial sector on the East River. He almost calls John back to ask where exactly in this bumfuck nowhere shipping yard he's supposed to go, but then he hears the sound of distant gunfire. It's practically a homing beacon.

Fusco follows the bullets to a dilapidated warehouse just off the water. He's close enough now to tell there are multiple shooters, and at least one of them has a semi-automatic. Well, ain't that peachy. He draws his service weapon and ducks inside.

He finds John pinned down behind a row of rotting crates. Shards of splintered wood rain down as more shots are fired from across the warehouse.

"I was gonna say this is a pickle, but it's a full on shit-show," Fusco gripes as he crouches down next to John. "What'd you get yourself into this time?"

John leans around the crates to return fire. "Oh, the usual: Drugs, murder, and mayhem."

The bullets stop for a moment, and ringing silence fills the warehouse.

"Do you think they ran out of ammo?" Fusco asks, trying to peek around the corner.

John gently tugs him back. "No, Lionel. I think they're moving into better position so they can flank us."

"Oh, wonderful. Fun never stops when you're around, does it?"

John makes a complicated hand motion, and then points to Fusco's left.

"What is this?" Fusco hisses, doing a horrible job of copying whatever the hell John just did. "I'm right here, jackass. We don't have to play charades."

John sighs deeply. "Just go that way, Lionel."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll go around. You gonna signal me or something?"

"Or something."

"You know, a thank you would be nice."

"I'll thank you when we get out of this in one piece. Now, get going."

Fusco opens his mouth to argue some more, but John has already disappeared between the crates.

"Unbelievable," Fusco mutters. He starts to make his way towards the back of the warehouse. He moves around more crumbling crates, careful to keep himself hidden. Luckily, he doesn't run into any bad guys along the way.

Then he gets into position, and he waits.

John stalls just long enough for Fusco to start getting antsy. It's unseasonably warm for fall, and the inside of the warehouse is sweltering. He shifts uncomfortably, his suit wilting and his hands sweating. 

Fusco sighs. He could be at home right now. Feet up in his recliner, Mets game on the television. A piping hot plate of the finest Italian the freezer section at his local grocery store has to offer. No inconsiderate partners dragging him into dangerous gun fights. Just a quiet, relaxing evening.

Right. And maybe after that Fusco will win the lottery and be crowned the Queen of Fucking England.

Finally, he hears a strangled yell, and then a teeth-rattling explosion.

That must be the signal. Fusco lunges from his hiding place and opens fire. The ball of flames does a nice job of driving the bad guys into his line of sight. He takes them all out at the knees, leaving them groaning and clutching their legs on the cement floor.

John stumbles into the open, covered in sawdust and other debris. He shakes his head like a dog and wood chunks fall out of his hair.

"What was that, a grenade?" Fusco asks as he kicks weapons away from their fallen counterparts' reach.

"Molotov cocktail. Abandoned warehouse, great place to find unattended flammable chemicals."

"Subtle," Fusco snorts. Then he waves at the goons slumped on the ground. "This all of them?"

John spins around, counting. Then he makes a face.

The insult is on the tip of Fusco's tongue when bullets dig into the concrete around his feet. The last gunman jumps down from a stack of crates and darts forward, firing with wild abandon.

Just as Fusco lurches out of the way, John rushes past him with a round bale of wire in his hands. Fusco watches in almost slow motion as John rolls the bale like a bowling ball and clips the guy in the ankles. He goes down hard, face-first into the cement with a sickening crack, and then falls limp.

Fusco stares incredulously at John's self-satisfied smirk. "What in the _fuck—_ "

"Strike."

Fusco glares at him. "Don't. _Do not_. I will shoot you myself."

"No, you won't."

"Try another bowling pun, watch what happens."

John's smirk widens into a true smile, and once again Fusco is fighting that warm feeling in his chest. "Nah, you like me too much."

"Keep it up. I'll drop kick you into the river, I swear to God."

"You'd have to catch me first."

"Oh yeah? Let's see how fast you run with no knee caps, wise ass."

* * *

The next morning, Fusco goes to his closet to pull out a clean shirt and spies something on the floor next to his good dress shoes. He flips on the light and pushes the clothing aside.

It's a brand new bowling bag in red and cream leather. Inside is a matching pair of bowling shoes, and a shiny new ball. Both fit him perfectly.

Fusco laughs to himself. There's no note, but Fusco doesn't know anyone else who would break into his apartment just to get out of saying thank you to his face.

* * *

Their semi-final match arrives. Fusco finds himself a bit nervous, now that there's actual stakes on the line. Three-fourths of the way through and the Pin Destroyers are still ahead, but not by much; the opposing team, the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers, are making it a competitive game.

John steps up to the line and takes a breath. Then he rolls, his ball like a heat-seeking missile right into the pins. It's another perfect strike.

The crowd claps and lets loose a few scattered cheers in response. No one watches normal league play, but the semis are exciting enough to draw a modest crowd, mostly family and friends. Fusco looks around for Harold, but doesn't see him. Maybe Glasses is watching the match through a security camera instead.

Fusco is watching John fish his ball out of the return when McPherson plops down next to him with a ginger ale. "Man, I still can't believe we're really here. Pinch me, Fusconator, I must be dreaming."

Fusco swats a him lightly. "I'll do more than pinch you, dumbass."

"Still can't believe Riley went from throwing rocks to this, either." McPherson gestures at John's scores. "He a government android or something? The Terminator get himself a new hobby?"

Fusco laughs. "When I asked, all he would say was 'practice'."

"And you believe that?"

Fusco gives him a considering look, his instincts prickling under his skin. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I've been bowling since I was a kid," McPherson says, growing more serious. "So have you. And neither of us have ever been close to that good. But Riley goes from terrible to major league in only a few months? Come on."

"What do you want me to say?" Fusco hears himself getting defensive, but can't bring himself to stop. "John is…" A pain in the ass? His partner? A retired government assassin who just happens to be his friend? "John. He's stupid talented at a lot of stuff, not just bowling. So what? You jealous or something, Vic?"

"Not jealous. Worried, more like."

Fusco scoffs. "Worried? What the hell for?"

McPherson leans forward. "I've been hearing things, Lionel. Things I don't like. Just how well do you know Riley?"

Fusco stares at him. He and McPherson have run in adjacent circles since their academy days, nearly 25 years. And in all that time, McPherson never got tangled up with HR, or any of the other seedy shit they see on the job. That made him solid in Fusco's book.

But Fusco's been a cop long enough to recognize when someone's trying to work him. McPherson's not worried about him, that's not his style. He's fishing for information. And whatever the reasoning, Fusco has a hunch it's more than idle curiosity.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I trust John with my life," Fusco says, staring McPherson down from across the table. "So, whatever you got to say, cut the shit and say it."

McPherson meets his gaze, his placid face giving nothing away. "Okay, then," he says easily. "After you wouldn't answer my questions about Riley,I looked him up. He's got a spotless record, a stack of commendations. He's good police, just like you said."

McPherson leans closer, and Fusco can see a reptilian shrewdness underneath his even-temperedexpression. It sends a shiver up Fusco's spine.

"But then I started asking around. And you know what I found? Not a single person I talked to knew Riley before he joined narcotics. I even called his old precincts. No one remembers him at all. It's like he just appeared out of thin air one day. Poof. Like magic."

Fear slides into Fusco's gut like ice.

"But you and I both know that's bullshit. So, tell me. Who is Riley? Because he's sure as shit not a real cop."

Fusco has never really asked questions about John's cover identity. He's been around long enough to know John would never answer them, even if he did. But he does know that John wouldn't have one unless it was necessary, unless there was something bad waiting on the other side of it. Something deadly.

So Fusco leans towards McPherson, pitching his voice low and dangerous.

"Listen up, asshole, because I'm only going to say this once," he growls. "You mess with Riley, you mess with me. You come after him, and I will make you fucking regret it. Understand?"

McPherson matches his glare with his own empty, lizard-like gaze. "So, it's like that, huh?"

"Yeah. It's like that."

Suddenly, the crowd bursts into applause around them. Fusco blinks, the angry roar in his ears subsiding as reality snaps back into place. Then Williams is at their side, fists raised in triumph.

"You two were too busy gabbing and missed the end of the match! Look, we won!"

Fusco hears the spectators cheering, sees Williams throw his arm around McPherson in celebration, sees the Pin Destroyer's winning score highlighted on the screen. In the next lane, the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers are dejected and sour-faced, liked someone pissed in their Wheaties every day for a week.

"Well, would you look at that," McPherson says, wrapping Williams in a one-armed hug. He's grinning like nothing happened, like he hadn't just threatened John, and Fusco had threatened him in return. "Guess that means we're going to the finals!"

Fusco feels a hand on his shoulder. John is behind him, a warm, solid line at his back. The anger and fear still running through Fusco's veins must be showing on his face, because John asks quietly, "Everything okay?"

Fusco pulls John aside until they're out of earshot, the exiting crowd filters around them. McPherson doesn't follow them. "You got something you want to tell me?"

John raises his brows. "No? I asked you first."

"When you did that background check on McPherson, what did you find?"

John's expression shifts to one of careful blankness. How he was ever a spy is beyond Fusco, because John can't lie for shit, and this time's not any different. "Nothing."

Fusco takes a step closer, really gets into John's personal space. John doesn't move.

"Bullshit," Fusco hisses. "McPherson _knows_. He looked into your cover, and he knows you're not a real cop."

John barely reacts, as is this is the most boring news he's ever heard, and not actual life and death. It just makes Fusco angrier. "That doesn't concern you, Lionel."

" _Bullshit._ I'm your partner, John. If you're in trouble, I can help."

"Not with this you can't."

"You still don't trust me, is that it?" The angry roar is back in Fusco's ears. "Everything we've been through, and you still can't tell me the truth?"

In the fluorescence of the bowling alley, John's eyes blaze an almost electric blue. Fusco thinks he sees a ripple behind them, that sad, miserable expression again. But it's just a blink, and then it's gone.

"Lionel." John murmurs. "Please."

"Yeah, why should you," Fusco spits, his temper boiling over and old wounds reopening under the onslaught. "Once a dirty cop, always a dirty cop, right?"

"Lionel—"

"No. You don't want my help? Fine. I'm gone."

Fusco turns on his heel, and doesn't look back.

* * *

It's after 3AM when Fusco's phone buzzes to life.

He's not asleep, even though he went to bed hours ago. Insomnia is an old foe, another perk of getting sober. Funny how hard it is to achieve unconsciousness when you're not drinking yourself into a stupor every night.

It's not because Fusco keeps replaying his and John's conversation over and over in his head, stewing in anger and hurt feelings more and more with every loop. Nope. Definitely not.

Fusco fumbles for his phone in the dark, squinting at the too bright screen. But instead of another call from a blocked number, or God forbid an apology text, it's directions from an unknown sender.

CORNER OF E HOUSTON ST AND AVE A

Fusco swings his feet over the side of the bed and clicks on the lamp, scrubbing at his face. "What the fuck," he says out loud to his empty bedroom.

He texts back _Finch is that you?_

No response.

_John?_

Nothing.

Fusco sighs deeply. "This better be a life and extremely fucking near death situation."

His phone buzzes again.

GO NOW

"All right, all right," Fusco grumbles. "I'm going."

* * *

The directions lead Fusco to a dive bar in the East Village. It's unfamiliar, but it looks exactly like every dump Fusco used to get thrown out of during his dumber, drunker days. He's about to go inside when he gets another anonymous message.

BACK ALLEY

Fusco frowns at his phone. "Bossy, ain't we?"

But he goes, turning away from the entrance and walking around the side of the brick building. The alley is closed off from the street with a plywood wall that labels it an active construction site. It takes some leverage, but after a few yanks, Fusco is able to pull the makeshift door open. After a surreptitious glance around, he steps inside.

The ground is littered with your standard bits of alley trash, crushed cigarette butts and discarded wads of chewing gum gone hard and black with age. The back door to the bar is propped open, letting music and light spill out onto the greasy pavement. Overhead, scaffolding spiderwebs along the adjacent building, rising up between the outcroppings and window AC units until it disappears into the darkness.

Fusco continues down the alley, passing the backside of a laundromat, a dentist office, and an appliance store, all shuttered and closed. He doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate why he's standing out here in the middle of the night.

If John dragged him out of bed because he's blackout drunk behind a dumpster, Fusco is going to be pissed.

He checks his phone. Nothing. No new directions, anonymous or otherwise. Fusco shakes his head and mutters, "A little help here?"

His phone buzzes in his hand.

8 O'CLOCK

Fusco blinks in confusion. According to his watch, it's a quarter to four. So, not the time. Then he recalls an old instructor from his academy days, a grizzled former military pilot, who taught them clock positioning. Slowly, Fusco rotates until he's facing slightly left. In front of him is a narrower alley he missed in the dark, one that branches off and leads deeper into the block of buildings. It's absolutely pitch black.

He sighs. "Yeah, that seems about right."

Fusco draws his weapon and moves carefully forwards, bracing his other hand against the stone wall for bearing as much as balance. It's so dark he can't see where his shoes are stepping, hear anything but his own breathing. But after a few claustrophobic moments, Fusco's ears pick up something else: The unmistakeable sound of fists hitting flesh.

Fusco hurries towards the noise as quickly as he can in the dark. A slice of yellow at the end of the alley opens up into a crumbling parking lot, dimly lit by sodium lights. Fusco sights around the corner and picks out two men fighting in the gloom. It's too dark to see much else, both figures little more than a faceless tangle of fists and feet. But it's obvious this is knock-down, drag-out brawl.

Just as Fusco's about to step out and announce himself, one of the men throws the other over his shoulder and onto the ground. He tries to get up, but gets kicked in the gut, once, twice, three times for his effort. Then he collapses on the pavement, falling limp and quiet.

His assailant stands over him, panting heavily. As Fusco watches, the man pulls a gun from his waistband. He points it down at the other man, aiming to put a bullet in his head.

Okay, time to end this.

"NYPD!" Fusco shouts, striding across the lot with his gun leveled and ready. "Drop your weapon and let me see your hands!"

The gunman freezes, but it's not in an _oh shit it's the cops_ kind of way. He's surprised, but not panicked, and entirely too at ease with being caught red-handed standing over his soon-to-be victim.

And then he laughs.

"Fusco, is that you?"

Fusco's weapon droops slightly. "Vic?"

And it is McPherson, Fusco can see that now that he's closer. But he doesn't have the easy face Fusco is used to seeing at bowling nights and the occasional backyard barbecue. Instead, McPherson looks downright ghoulish, his features heavily shadowed in the low light, blood so dark it looks black smeared under his nose.

"Hey, Fusco." There's no warmth in McPherson's voice, no waiting punchline. "What are you doing here?"

"I think that's my line." Fusco flicks his eyes to the man crumpled between them. It looks like he's still unconscious. "What is this, Vic?"

McPherson spits blood on the ground, the flow from his nose splitting around his mouth and running down his chin. "We go way back, don't we, Fusco?"

"We do. But I tend to frown on my friends committing murder."

McPherson gives him a bloody smile. "That's not what I heard."

Fusco tries hard not to flinch. "Put the gun down, Vic. Let's talk. You don't have to do this."

"This is just business." McPherson cocks his gun. "Go away, Fusco, and maybe I'll forget you were ever here."

"I can't do that." Fusco's pulse is racing, his palms sweaty around his gun grip. He glances down at the unconscious man again, digging the toe of his shoe hard into his back. Whoever this guy is, this situation would be a whole lot easier if he could get up and run.

The man rolls over slightly. Fusco is just able to make out his features in the dim light. Dark hair, impossible cheekbones, stupidly long lashes. A single blue eye that opens to look up at Fusco.

Jesus Christ, it's John.

The next sequence of events happen in a blur of speed. Fusco's stomach drops out as McPherson swings the gun around to point at him. Right as McPherson fires, John lurches up and slams into his side, throwing his aim off just enough that the bullet only grazes Fusco's head instead of ventilating it. Fusco reels backwards and his gun goes skidding across the parking lot, a hot line of pain streaking his temple.

Fusco shakes his head, trying to clear the vicious ringing in his ear. John and McPherson are wrestling over the gun, trading grunts of pain and body blows as they scrape and lunge at each other.

McPherson gains the upper hand again and punches John in the face, hard. John falls to the ground. McPherson goes for the gun.

Fusco picks up a chunk of broken concrete and bashes McPherson in the face with it. McPherson yells and falls to his knees. Then John kicks his head into a parking pole with an almighty clang, dropping him like a stringless marionette.

For a minute, neither of them speak. They both just pant for breath, Fusco with his hands on his knees, John lying face-up on the pavement. 

"You okay?" John eventually rasps.

Fusco touches his temple and hisses. The wound isn't deep, but there's already blood running down the side of his face. "Still alive. You?"

John makes a noise that might be a laugh, but mostly it just sounds like he's losing air. "Still alive."

Fusco straightens up. He retrieves his gun, and then McPherson's. Then he steps around McPherson's unconscious body and offers John a hand. John takes it, and Fusco pulls him upright.

"You wanna explain how you got your ass so thoroughly kicked, Wonderboy? You got a concussion or something?" The answer comes when John exhales in Fusco's face, and the smell of whiskey is strong enough to curdle the air between them.

Fusco jerks back, and John staggers sideways, nearly toppling over again. Fusco stares at him in disbelief.

"You're drunk."

John wavers back and forth, but manages to stay standing without Fusco's support. "McPherson was tailin' me. Knew he wouldn't make his move unless he thought he thought he could— _hic_ —win."

"He almost did!" Fusco is pissed, but he also feels like he could be sick. "You could have faked it. You didn't need to actually get wasted!"

John shakes his head, listing to the side a bit. "He would've been able to tell. Wouldn't you?"

Fusco doesn't answer. Maybe. Yes.

"You almost died, John. You would have, if I hadn't gotten here in time."

John shrugs. "Didn't, though."

Fusco stares at him. On some level, he understands John's flagrant disregard for himself, because he's been there. Alcoholism is a form of self-violence, hurt you do to yourself because you think you deserve it, or because you don't know any better. But you're never hurting just yourself. Everyone in your life hurts with you.

Fusco understands that. He's lived it. But this is the first time he's experienced it from the other side, as a helpless bystander, as a friend.

It feels like an ice pick to the chest.

John stumbles and catches himself on the brick wall. Fusco tucks all that away. There will be time for that later—like every time he tries to sleep for the next month—but right now, he needs to get McPherson into custody, and John somewhere safe to sleep it off.

"Come on, big guy," Fusco says, wedging himself under one of John's arms to steady him. "Let's get you home." 

* * *

Fusco takes McPherson to holding at the Eighth. Apparently, the reason he'd steered clear of HR all those years was because he was running his own operation, mostly drugs. John noticed some irregularities in his finances, and traced him to the East River warehouse, and then to a series of other distribution sites. McPherson figured out John was onto him, though, and decided to solve the problem with a bullet. 

"How did you know?" McPherson keeps asking. Fusco doesn't answer, and leaves him to rot in a cell.

Then Fusco drives to John's apartment. He's never been there, but he looked up the address in the NYPD system ages ago. Just in case.

Getting John out of the car and into the building is an ordeal and a half. John's dead on his feet, and as they wait for the elevator—thank Christ and all the saints there's an elevator—Fusco takes more and more of his weight. By the time they get to John's front door, Fusco is practically dragging him.

It's a minor war for John to get his keys out of his pocket, and predictably, he almost immediately drops them while fumbling for the right one. Luckily, it's late/early enough that no one sees the awkward, contorted way Fusco has to stoop to pick them up, John draped over his back like the world's heaviest rag doll.

Finally, Fusco gets the door open and hauls them both inside.

"Where's your bedroom?" Fusco considers cleaning John up in the bathroom first, but if John passes out completely, Fusco's not sure he'll be able to move him again. If Mr. Sunshine bleeds on his sheets, then so be it.

John snorts. "Not that kind of girl," he mutters into Fusco's shoulder.

"Do you want me to drop you? 'Cause I will."

John mumbles something incomprehensible and flaps a hand towards the back of the apartment.

They move slowly, Fusco navigating them around obstacles by the streetlight coming through the windows. When they get to the bedroom, Fusco hip checks the door open and dumps John on the bed.

Then he goes searching for a first aid kit, turning on lights as he goes. A kind way to describe John's apartment would be spartan; there's only the bare minimum of furniture, a couch, a battered dining table with a single chair, a television so old it still has knobs and bunny ears.

But the rest of what you would expect to find in an average apartment is missing. The walls are bare, but not in an intentional way. Nothing in the apartment is arranged. It's just there. Or not there. There's no art, no photos, no curtains. No books, or plants, or any decor at all. Nothing to indicate an actual person lives there.

Fusco's not sure what he expected. But the longer he looks, the sadder it makes him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It's Harold.

" _Lionel, oh, thank goodness,_ " Harold says in a rush. " _I haven't been able to get a hold of John, and then you weren't answering—_ "

Fusco checks his missed calls. There are several from Harold, along with a small multitude of unanswered texts. Fusco was so caught up, he didn't even notice.

He sighs. "Sorry, Finch. I didn't mean to make you worry. It's just that it's been a busy night."

Fusco tells him, minimizing the parts where he and John almost died. He's pretty sure it doesn't fool Harold, but he still tries.

" _You're both okay, though?_ " Harold asks for the third time.

"We're fine, Glasses. John's a little banged up, but I got him home."

" _I'm glad to hear it._ " Harold lets out a breath. " _I don't know what's worse, knowing about these things while they're happening, or not finding out until afterwards._ "

"Yeah. I'll stay with him."

" _Thank you, Lionel. And thank you for being there tonight. I shudder to think what would have happened otherwise._ "

"No problem. But I wouldn't have been there if you hadn't text me."

Harold pauses. " _I didn't text you, detective._ "

"You didn't? I got a whole bunch of messages telling me where to go. Led me straight to our boy, and just in the nick of time. If that wasn't you, then who was it?"

Harold is silent for a long moment. " _A friend. I think._ "

"You guys don't have any friends. Well, except for me."

" _That's the closest term I can think to use. I apologize that I can't explain more._ "

Fusco thinks about pushing the issue, but lets it drop. "Yeah, okay. Then tell your friend thanks for me, will ya?"

" _I will._ " Harold's tone cools considerably. " _Among other things._ "

After the call ends, Lionel checks his texts. The anonymous messages are gone, like they never existed.

Fusco shakes his head. Another techno thing that he doesn't understand. Working with Harold and friends, that's just another day.

Fusco finds the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. In the mirror, he checks his own head wound. The bleeding has mostly stopped, leaving a crusty trail down the side of his face. Fusco scrubs the red away and applies antiseptic with a grimace. Most of the cut is in his hair, so he skips a bandage for now. Then he takes the kit back into the bedroom.

John is right where Fusco left him, facedown and unmoving on the sheets. He groans when Fusco clicks on the bedside lamp, but otherwise doesn't resist as Fusco pulls his shoes off and then sits down next to him on the bed.

Fusco slaps him lightly on the side. "I'm going to clean you up now, okay? Can you roll over for me?"

John makes what sounds like an assenting grunt and then flops gracelessly onto his back. Fusco wipes the dried blood from John's battered knuckles and face, cleaning and bandaging wounds as he uncovers them.

"Why bowling?" John mutters.

"What?"

"Bowling is…" John trails off. "There's so many other things. Why bowling?"

"My old man loved it," Fusco says. "He used to take me to Sal's when I was a little kid. Of course, back then, I hated it. Thought it was the most boring thing in the world."

"Little kid you isn't wrong," John mumbles.

Fusco chuckles. "Yeah. But after he died, I got into it again. I guess it's my way of being close to him."

John falls quiet as Fusco checks his scalp for injuries, his eyes fluttering shut. 

"My dad worked a lot, so bowling was one of the only things he did for fun. He owned a grocery store up in the Bronx. We all worked there, but no one worked harder than he did. I found him slumped over a crate of oranges when I was 19. Heart attack."

John twitches as Fusco applies antiseptic to one of his cuts. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks. My ma kept the place going until she retired. Now my sister Eileen runs it."

"But not you?"

"Nah. I didn't want to spend my whole life shuffling fruit around. I started at the police academy a month after he died." Fusco doesn't know why he's telling John all this, but now that he's started, the words are flowing out of him like water. "I remember standing in the stock room, in the same spot my dad died, looking at all the boxes. And I wondered how many crates of produce stood between me and my own death. It was terrifying."

"Lots of worse ways to die."

"Trust me, I know that now. And I don't regret my time there." He pulls up John's shirt to examine his torso and the kaleidoscope of bruises already starting to form there. "It was actually pretty good practice for becoming a cop. You see a lot of people every day, and I got good at reading them. I could spot a shop-lifter a mile away."

"Really."

"Oh, yeah. I chased enough of them down the block that I figured it would be easier to catch them before they started running."

John huffs, not quite a laugh, and then groans. His abdominal muscles contract under Fusco's fingers. "Smart."

"Thanks. It's been known to happen on occasion."

John is completely pliant under Fusco's hands, enduring all his pokes and prods without complaint. It should probably freak Fusco out, how easy John is being, how readily he accepts Fusco's care. He's known John for going on five years now, and not once has the man ever been anything but a colossal pain in the ass. But Fusco is exhausted, so he doesn't want to look a gift ex-government agent in the mouth, so to speak.

Once he's finished, Fusco packs the first kit aid kit away. When he looks up, John is watching him, his eyes molten in the low light.

Fusco swallows. "Well, I don't think you broke any ribs. You're gonna hurt like hell for a few days, but you'll live."

John hums. He reaches up towards Fusco's hairline with questioning fingers. "And you? You okay?"

Fusco catches John's hand before he can clumsily poke the wound at his temple. "Yeah, I'm fine. It just winged me."

"Couldn't get through all this floof," John snorts, the tips of his fingers brushing Fusco's hair.

"Hilarious. Okay, time for bed."

He gently but firmly pushes John's hand down and gets to his feet. He fetches the blankets from the end of the mattress and tugs them up and over John's body. But before he can pull away, John grabs Fusco's wrist with a speed and strength that no drunk person should have. Figures that even hammered, Wonderboy still has freakishly good reflexes.

"I'm sorry about McPherson," John croaks. That sad and miserable expression is starting to bleed into his features. "About the finals match."

Fusco sighs. League rules state the Pin Destroyers need all four members of their original roster in order to play in the finals. Without McPherson, they'll be disqualified.

"It's not your fault McPherson turned out to be a huge douche," Fusco says. "Williams, he'll be disappointed, but he'll get over it. And hey, there's always next year."

John's face clears like the sun coming through the clouds. "Next year?"

"Yeah, dummy. Next year."

John's hand relaxes around Fusco's wrist. Then he uses his other one to grab Fusco by his jacket and pull him down into a kiss.

At first it's just their mouths crushed together, John's breath hot and heavy on Fusco's face. But then it gentles, and Fusco feels how soft John's lips are as they part against his own, how the rasp of John's stubble sends tingles down his spine. He can taste whiskey on John's tongue, which should be gross, but isn't, not even a little bit. John slides a hand into Fusco's hair and tugs with just the right amount of force, making Fusco shiver against him. A distant part of Fusco's mind thinks this should be weird, he's kissing _John_ , his friend, his partner, the bane of his existence. But then John licks a very unmanly sound out of him, and Fusco stops having pretty much any thoughts at all.

When John finally breaks away, it takes Fusco an embarrassingly long time to put the melted bits of his brain back together. He means to say something smooth, something romantic, but instead all that comes out is, "What was that for?"

"What do you mean?" John murmurs. He goes for Fusco's neck next, the bastard. 

Fusco finally manages to pull away, much to the disappointment of his throbbing dick. "I mean, we can't do this. You're drunk." 

"Not that drunk." John tries to lean in again, but Fusco stops him. 

"You are. And anyway, why me?" 

John looks at Fusco, his cheeks flushed and his hair sticking up a bit. It should be illegal for someone to look so good. An absolute goddamn crime.

"Because I like you, Lionel," he says simply. "And because I don't think I'm the only one who's been lonely."

Fusco looks away, a dozen different emotions crawling up his throat. John's not wrong. He supposes it's been that way for a long time, since even before his divorce. Most of Fusco's life has been the world coming at him from all sides, his back to the wall and no one at his side. There are nights when Fusco's apartment feels so empty he can't stand it, when Lee is at his mother's, and there's no amount of work, or bad television, or frozen lasagna that can fill the void that opens up beneath his skin. Before, he would drink himself into oblivion. Now he just sits, and aches, and waits for the sun to come up.

Maybe he's been doing that for long enough.

John folds Fusco's hand into his own and squeezes. "Lionel?"

The warm feeling in Fusco's chest is so strong and bright he feels like he could burst. He leans down and kisses John on the forehead, smoothes his hair down.

"Fine. I like you, too. Now, for the love of God, go to sleep."

John seems content with that. He smiles, slow and sleepy, and his eyes drift closed. Within minutes, he's out like a light. 

* * *

Fusco watches the sun crest over the buildings and creep in through the windows. After John fell asleep, Fusco pulled his one dining chair into the bedroom and planted himself in the corner. John has hardly stirred for hours, his breathing slow and deep.

It's obvious John's been struggling, and has been for a while. In hindsight, Fusco is mad at himself for not noticing more, doing more. It's not like they sit around and talk about their feelings or whatever, and John is damn good at pretending he's fine even when he's not. But John is his partner. Fusco should have seen it. 

They have a lot to talk about. But for now, Fusco lets John sleep. 

Fusco turns his cell phone between his hands. Then, hesitatingly, he holds the phone up to eye level. This feels really weird, and more than a little stupid, but Fusco thinks it worked before. So he gives it a shot.

"I know I told Harold to thank you," Fusco says awkwardly. "Whoever you are. But I also wanted to tell you myself. And to ask that you keep an eye on John for me. He needs a little extra help right now, and Glasses and I can use all the juice we can get. So, uh. Thank you."

Later, Fusco will wonder if he imagined it. But he swears his phone vibrates in his hand, and it feels like an acknowledgement, message received, like someone winking at him from on high.

**Author's Note:**

> The East Village bar mentioned is real, and is called, I shit you not, [the Library](https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-library-new-york). I couldn't resist.


End file.
